


The Island of Golden Flowers

by Alystraea



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, Glorfindel is a saint, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 03:17:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5951770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alystraea/pseuds/Alystraea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the early Third Age and life in Imladris is uneventful. Galadriel and Elrond dispatch a bored balrog slayer off to do some island hopping and "find himself".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Calming of the Sea

The golden-haired elf woke when the ship pitched and flung him out of his bunk and into the aisle.

 _Eru have mercy on us,_ he thought, as the next violent wave tossed the vessel like a toy and hurled him back against his bunk. The world exploded in pain and he saw stars.

He could hear the crew of the small vessel shouting to each other as he made his way over to the ladder and up the hatch with excruciating slowness as the ship pitched and rolled. As he pulled himself on deck, a large wave washed over the ship, drenched him, and almost swept him overboard.

“ _Lord Ossë!”_ yelled the blond into the howling tempest, clinging on to a mast. “For the love of Uinen—please stop!” Sputtering salt water and coughing as another wave swamped him, he bellowed, _“By Eru’s holy name, Ossë! Have mercy!”_

In the blink of an eye, the waves calmed, the grey clouds cleared, and the wind and rain dwindled.

A shaft of morning sunlight slanted through the easternmost clouds in the grey sky, and lit up the elf’s golden hair, so that even wet, it shone with the glory of a sudden sunrise.

He slowly rose and stood in the middle of the deck in his bare feet, and his wet tunic clinging to his lithe torso. He winced as he felt his aching shoulder.

The six Egladhrin mariners, who had lashed themselves to their ship with ropes, stared at him in awe.

The elf pushed his wet, tousled, unbraided hair back from his face, looked at them, and cleared his throat. “That was Gaerys in a foul mood,” he said in Sindarin, since he could not speak their variant of the Falathrin dialect well. “But he can be appealed to…much of the time,” he added hastily, remembered the seven ships that had been wrecked bearing Turgon’s message to the West. _The time of the Doom is over_ , he reminded himself. From his experience with Ossë over the past few millennia, the capricious _maia_ had turned aside from his wrath whenever cried out to.

As the ship resumed its course, and flew over the now becalmed sea, the captain of the vessel approached his passenger rather warily as he stood at the prow with his hair streaming in the wind.

The golden-haired elf was dressed simply in plain linen and leather—a doublet over a long-sleeved tunic, and breeches tucked into boots—but one could see that the materials and cut were very fine. His only adornment was his flowing hair, which was of a hue so bright and rich as it caught the sunlight that one could be mesmerized while gazing at it. He had yesterday brought on board a magnificent sword in a leather scabbard, but it was now left below deck. What kindred he belonged to was a puzzle. His luminous golden hair proclaimed him to be one of the legendary Minyar they had heard of, the ones who had returned only a short season to the shores of Ennor during the War of Wrath, then disappeared back into the West. Yet he spoke Sindarin, and his fair, flawless features and complexion were Telerin. He knew his way around a ship like a mariner and handled tackle as one born to it. But he was an Inlander. Asked yesterday which race he hailed from, he had chuckled and replied, “Probably a mongrel of all of them.”

The captain and crew had been intrigued by him since he first approached them for passage to the Island of Golden Flowers. That height. That golden hair. The way he shone like a sunrise. But the way he had joked and chatted with them on the journey thus far had put them at ease.

They were now seriously doubting if their tall passenger was in fact an elf at all. Wonder and conjecture were rampant now in their silent thought exchanges, as they watched him.

The golden one turned his head to look at the nervous captain, and his azure blue eyes sparkled with amusement. “Friend, why do you eye me as though I am a ghost? Just yesterday did we not talk and laugh the hours away together?”

The awe was still in the young Egol’s face and his glittering sea-grey eyes as he looked up at the much taller man. “My lord, tell me please—are—are you of the _Ainur?_ ”

The passenger looked shocked for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Nay, friend! I am _edhel_ —like yourself.”

“You calmed the sea. You spoke to Lord Gaerys—and he…he _listened_ to you. We can tell you are a lord of great power.”

The blue eyes were saddened. “Ah, young one… but why do you speak to him no longer? Are you not of the Teleri, who are the beloved of Gaerys?”

The Egol shook his head sadly. “Lord Gaerys has not revealed himself to us since ancient days.”

The traveller looked at the other _ciryn_ who all looked busy at work on board, but were listening in to the conversation, he knew. Brown-haired and sea-eyed, they nimbly climbed the masts and ropes. _All so young_. “Were all of you born after the world was bent and Elenna sunk beneath the sea?”

“Aye,” said the captain, a mere child of three hundred and six years, compared to the four-thousand-year-old elf next to him. “But we do still keep the old ways. We pour libations on the waters to Lord Gaerys and Great Lord Gulma ere we sail, and when we fish, we offer the best of each catch back to them. But still, we lose ships and men each year to the storms and the sea… I feel… I feel they are deaf to us. They have turned their backs on us.” The last words were a whisper, as though he feared that he spoke blasphemies.

The golden-haired elf gazed kindly upon the Egol. He wondered at what stage these people had begun to name themselves _Forsaken_ , and to live as though they were so. These sea elves on the scattered isles far north from Lindon scarce acknowledged Círdan’s lordship, preferring to have no lords and live free. But, in some ways, they had also… diminished over the years.

The elf remembered his childhood on the shores of Nevrast. It troubled his _fëa_ to meet elven mariners who seemed less in harmony with the sea than at its mercy. They wove little magics: spellsongs to keep their nets from breaking, and to safeguard their vessels from leaks. With voices fair as all those of the Teleri were, they sang with all the mesmerizing beauty of the sea’s many voices in their songs. Yet they did not sing with power to call the winds, nor speak to the sky and the waves, nor summon the fish as they cast their nets. They did not fellowship with Ulmo or Uinen or Ossë though they revered them. Their hearts no longer beat with the beat of the sea, though they loved it, for fear is the enemy of love.

They had dwindled even in stature, thought the Beleriand-born warrior, who was used to being the tallest elf wherever he went in Ennor. There were _edhil_ taller than himself, but they had long since gone to Mandos, or sailed west. Yet even for those of Telerin stock, these _ciryn_ were rather short. He towered over the tallest by a head and a half.

It reminded him too much of mortals.

 _A time of fading and dwindling for the elves_. Perhaps these were more of the signs.

“Libations and sacrifice are all very well,” the traveller said gently. “But why not try speaking to Gaerys, as to another _edhel?_ He loves your people and it is friendship he has always desired with you. He kept your forbears on these shores that he might be close to them. Methinks he rages at your silence.”

The young Egol looked doubtful. “He would hear such as me?”

“I believe he would.” The traveller gave an encouraging, incandescent smile. “How could it hurt to try?”

The young Egol was hanging onto every word as though the traveller were an oracle. He smiled shyly. “I shall try, lord. Thank you for your wisdom.”

The elf lord almost rolled his eyes as he looked back over the open ocean with a small sigh. “How much further, captain?”

“Half a day if the weather holds fair.” The captain hesitated, then asked, his eyes curious and wondering, “You are the first Inlander to come to these parts in my lifetime. Why…why do you wish to make pilgrimage to the grave of the _Aer Maethor?_ ”

The golden-haired elf cringed. _Pilgrimage. Holy warrior._

He wondered whether to tell the captain, then decided it were better not to.

“I was sent here on an errand.”

“We wondered if—if there was any special reason for you to be going there.” He licked his lips and eyed the radiant tresses of golden hair streaming in the sea breezes nervously. “There is nothing on the island but sheep, and the grave. The only ones who ever go to Tol Mellys are islanders who go there to make petition at the grave.”

The blond looked alarmed. “ _Petition?_ Mountain of Manwë! But _why?_ —the _maethor_ is only an _edhel_ like ourselves, after all.”

The captain looked a little indignant. “My mother hails from Tol Mellys, and told me of it since I could walk. The _Aer Maethor_ has blessed the island with fair weather and sweet streams for thousands of years. The _mallos_ blossoms flourish there, and the pastures are green even in winter, though the nearest islands are barren and harsh of clime. In the lambing season each year, the ewes all bear twins and triplets.”

The blond was looking stupefied. “There must be other explanations,” he protested. “There were always good winter grasses in that region. And the happy coincidence of good soil and mineral-rich rocks leaching into the aquifers. Anyone—anyone who knew him would tell you—he was just an ordinary person.”

“He was _not_. He was a mighty and valiant _callon_ who gave his life for the people. He slew the great demon of fire and darkness. He was a most powerful lord.”

“If you knew his friends and fellow lords, you would know they were warriors as mighty and brave as he. And his best friend killed more fire demons than he did. He killed just one.”

“But it was the greatest of fire demons—the strongest of them all.”

“It was larger than the others. That is true. A new prototype of Morgoth’s. Faster, stronger, but also far heavier. Those wings were huge, but useless for actual flight—for which we could all be thankful.”

The captain’s face was a study in awe, bafflement, and mild offence. And the familiarity with which the traveller spoke of the warrior compounded the awe. “So… you _were there?_ You…you… _knew him?”_ There was a hidden question he dared not ask. The Egol’s tone was reverent, and excited. By now, the other _ciryn_ were openly listening intently with the same expression of awed fascination.

The traveller gave an enigmatic smile, and his blue eyes sparkled. “You could say that,” he said.

There was awed speculation in the faces of the Egladhrim now. The traveller could almost see the thought flashing with lightning speed between their minds as they spoke silently to each other.

“You must tell us everything—the story of what happened.”

The traveller hesitated. “Forgive me if I tell the tale later, my good captain. I have told it many times before, and it wearies me a little.”

“When we arrive at Tol Mellys, captain,” called out one _cirion_ from the top of the central high mast. “Then the others can hear it too.”

“Tell us more about the _Aer Callon_ , the holy hero. What was he like?” asked the _cirion_ steering the ship _._ A testing question.

“A hero? He was a  _maethor_ doing what he had trained all his life to do. And honestly, he was a dreadful prankster as a child.”

There were murmurs and chuckles and grins. “I cannot believe it!” said one.

“We are all of us _cellyn_ , waiting for that one day and one hour that Eru has ordained for us to rise up. And then we do so by His grace and power, not our own. The _maethor_ buried on that hillside was an ordinary person, whose great misfortune was that his foe had a long reach—and that he wore his hair that day a tad too long.”

He smiled at them wryly as he spoke the last words, and swept them a courtly bow that signalled that the talk was over for now. They returned the bow, looked at each other, and returned to their stations.

Then propping his chin on his hand and leaning on the ship’s prow, he gazed at the still empty vastness of the horizon.

And wondered forlornly for the hundredth time why he was here, sailing over the northern waters that covered what had once been Beleriand, in search of a hunk of rock on which a grave sat, instead of exploring the Forodwaith.

 

* * *

 

_Glossary_

Gaerys (S) – one of Ossë’s names

Egladhrim (S) – ‘the Forsaken’. One of the names for those of the Teleri who remained behind on the shores of Ennor when Ossë/Gaerys took the rest of their brethren across the great sea.

Egol (S) – one of the Egladhrim

Gulma (S) – one of Ulmo’s names

Aer (S) – holy

Maethor (S) – warrior

Callon/ cellyn (S) – hero/heroes

Cirion/ciryn (S) – mariner/mariners

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An early Third Age spin-off from my fanfic The Golden and the Black. I always liked the idea of sending Glorfindel to visit his own grave. And now that I need a break from my re-write of The Golden and the Black (yeargh!!!) this seemed like a light, whimsical thing to do…  
> Elven height – The Teleri are on the whole less tall than the Noldor. And my headcanon for Glorfindel is that he is really quite tall—just not as tall as Argon or Turgon. [Thingol is of course the tallest edhel ever. I wonder if anyone can tell me if Tolkien ever says anywhere if he was born so—because it could have happened while he was bespelled by Melian.]  
> For a few days I had a "painting mood", so here's one of Glorfindel at his grave. https://alystraea.deviantart.com/art/Glorfindel-finds-his-grave-589508775  
> The flowers were such a pain to do!


	2. The Flowers That Bloom In The Spring (Tra La)

It was spring again in Imladris, and the plum, cherry, and apple trees in Celebrían’s orchard were loaded with delicate pink and white blossoms which floated down to a blossom-carpeted ground gently warming in the spring sun.

At the centre of the orchard, a springtime ritual was taking place, as it had for the past forty-three years.

“Hold still!” commanded Arwen, as she deftly braided the warrior’s luminous locks of hair. “Why are you always so restless? Stop fidgeting.”

“Is it almost done, _pen dithen?_ I promised Asfaloth a ride this afternoon.” To be sitting still and idle while being fussed over was a trial to him.

And no one— _no one—_ as a rule had been allowed to braid or touch his hair for four thousand years.

Until seven-year-old Arwen had toddled up to him, that is, with her tiny hands full of blossoms and looked up with her huge, glittering grey eyes.

“Goffy, can I make your hair pretty?”

And Glorfindel had melted utterly, and acquiesced to a half-hour of tugging and pulling and messing with his glorious locks by the tiny child, the results of which had left the peredhel twins and Erestor and Lindir in stitches, snorting and giggling.

And so the tradition had begun. For Arwen and Arwen alone would Glorfindel lay down his pride once a year and submit to having his precious tresses mauled and primped.

This was taking longer than in previous years. As Arwen’s skill had grown over the years, so had the elaborateness of each year’s style.

“Almost done.” She gave a silvery, melodious giggle. “It looks enchanting.”

“How many flowers are you putting in this time?” asked Glorfindel uneasily.

“As many as I can.”

He groaned. “ _Pen dithen,_ I beg you—do you want to make me look like the Woodland King in springtime?”

“He will not be able to hold a candle to you.”

“How would you know, Blossom? You have never met him.”

“I do not need to,” she declared airily. “Not an _ellon_ in Ennor can compare with my 'Goffy'. Am I not right, _Nana?”_

“Oh, my child, of course there is! Your _Ada_ is without peer in all of Arda.” And Celebrían gave her lord an adoring glance. Elrond smiled complacently at his wife then gave his daughter a wounded look.

“Apart from you, my darling  _Ada_ , of course. That goes without saying.” And she blew a fatuous kiss to her father, before slipping another blossom into a golden braid.

Sunlight filtered through the trees and danced on the ground about the four elves as they sat in the orchard—Glorfindel cross-legged, and Arwen kneeling behind him adorning his sun-bright golden hair with plum and cherry blossoms. The Evenstar’s own dark tresses cascaded down her back adorned with pearls and cherry blossoms, and her radiant face was of so perfect a loveliness that the very trees of the orchard seemed to bow towards her in admiration and envy. Both elf lord and elf maiden chanced to be wearing white and silver, and they made an entrancing sight.

Some distance away, the Lord and Lady of Imladris sat under the branches of a large cherry tree, and admired them.

“Look at them, _meleth-nín_ ,” sighed Celebrían with a smile, leaning her silver head on her hand as she reclined on the carpet of blossoms. Next to her was Elrond, leaning against the tree trunk. “Do they not make a charming couple?”

Elrond stiffened. He would never have viewed the pretty scene before him in that light, and the very thought gave him a shock.

“A couple? Glorfindel and our baby?” the Lord of Imladris said, appalled. “She is just coming of age! She is barely out of diapers!”

“Oh, _El-nín!_ She comes of age tomorrow. It isn’t as though I wish them to exchange silver rings right now. But have you never thought of how, some day, they might—”

“Never,” Elrond said, emphatically. “Never. You know well that Glorfindel has no thought for romance at all, _Rían-nín._ Nothing engrosses him but adventures, and games, and riding, and hunting, and fighting. And Arwen is but as a daughter or a niece to him.”

“But there is none purer or more valiant than he. And they two are the fairest of all the Eldar to walk the earth! Think of what beautiful and charming grandchildren we will have!” Celebrían said playfully.

Elrond laughed, but knew his Lady was half-serious. “Our daughter is worthy of a high king, _meleth-nín._ And,”—Elrond felt guilty as he said it—“I would not have her bind with one of lesser lineage than hers. In Eldamar, when we sail west, there would be many noble princes of the three kindred of the Eldar to vie for her hand.”

 _“El-nín!”_ Celebrían’s lovely face became severe.  “Nobler or braver than Glorfindel? Is Glorfindel not as a brother to us? Our dearest friend? A warrior matchless in skill and courage? A commander strong and wise? A hero of legend? The sweetest-natured and best-hearted _ellon_ in all of Ennor?”

“Yes,” Elrond said. “And you know I love him dearly. But… as a prospective match for our jewel, does it not disturb you a little that his…his lineage is… entirely unknown?”

It was a mystery most romantic that enshrouded the golden-haired legend. A foundling taken in by a princess, raised at Turgon’s court to become the finest warrior of a secret city, then heroically laying down his life so that the princess who saved him—and her line—might live. And now, he had been reborn and returned to Middle Earth to continue to serve that princess’ line.

To serve that line, thought Elrond, not _marry_ into it. For now that the Lord of imladris contemplated the possibility that his dearest friend and closest adviser and foremost warrior could be a potential law-son, his unknown parentage suddenly loomed in importance. _Anything less than the lines of Ingwë, Finwë, or Olwë,_ he thought…

Celebrían glared at her husband, reading his mind, and sighed. “Whatever Glorfindel’s lineage, if you would deem him unworthy, then there is none on these shores or the other that you would deem worthy.”

And suddenly, he came to the realization that she was right. Elrond had to admit to himself that the truth was this: there not one who walked the earth that he would remotely entertain as a suitor for his daughter. Not one. _Unless it were the High King of the Eldar himself_ …but maybe not even then. The royalty of Aman would have to come under careful scrutiny before Elrond would permit any to pay court to his treasure.

The Lady of Imladris caressed her lord’s face with a loving hand and shook her head sadly. “Be not Thingol as a father, _meleth-nín._ Remember how that tale played out.”

But Elrond, frowning, was not thinking of his great-great-grandfather’s bride-price of a silmaril. He was busy noticing what he had not before.

The handsome pair had risen to their feet. As Glorfindel brushed petals from his clothes, Elrond noted how adoringly Arwen’s silver-grey eyes gazed at his fair face, with its azure blue eyes and chiselled features. Her slender, shapely, white fingers carefully arranged Glorfindel’s flowing locks over his shoulders, and Elrond stiffened to see them run caressingly over the warrior’s biceps and pectorals as she smoothed the folds of his white tunic.

_How did my daughter become besotted with my best friend—and I not note it?_

“ _Ada! Nana!_ Does he not look glorious? Have I not outdone myself this year?” she sang out melodiously to her parents as she danced gracefully around the tall warrior, turning him around so that they could admire the artfully woven spring blossoms in the slender braids falling down his back. The flowers and braids nestled in the shining golden waves of his loose tresses, and on his head she had set a fair garland of more blossoms. Glorfindel stood with his arms folded across his chest, looking resigned, and smiled down at the Evenstar like a fond, longsuffering uncle.

“All hail the Woodland King!” Elrond said drily.

Glorfindel winced at the comparison. “So I look like a pretentious peacock? Someone kill me.”

“Oh, Glorfindel! ever _so_ much prettier than Thranduil,” exclaimed Celebrían, clapping her hands.

Arwen chuckled merrily. “ _Ae,_ no longer the Lord of the Golden Flower but the Lord of the Spring Blossoms!” The loveliest maiden to walk Ennor tiptoed to kiss the balrog slayer’s cheek, then hugged him tightly around his waist and snuggled her fair cheek against his chest.

As she had done many, many times since she had first learned to walk. Only now, it made Elrond narrow his eyes and furrow his brow.

Elrond knew rationally that Glorfindel was not to be blamed. The balrog slayer drew _ellith_ to himself without meaning to, as sugar drew ants, as flowers drew bees and butterflies. _But if he breaks my baby’s heart, so Eru help me—_

Glorfindel laughed lightly as she-who-is-fairest released him from her embrace, and he swept a graceful bow to all present. “I beg to be excused, my august lord and my fair ladies. My faithful steed awaits me!” _And Asfaloth will happily eat the flowers_ , thought he.

 “Let me ride with you!” Arwen pleaded, catching hold of Glorfindel’s arm as he turned to leave for the stables.

Glorfindel masked his dismay at being unable to feed Asfaloth the flower garland just yet. “Very well, _pen dithen!_ Perhaps on Geliroch, since your Losstâl has just foaled—”

“Oh, let me ride with you on Asfaloth, as I once did! It will be such fun.”

“Take your _Nana’s_ Liltharoch, _Iell-nín,_ ” said Elrond firmly. “When you were a wee lass of twenty, Asfaloth might not have minded. But now…”

“Oh, but Asfaloth loves me, _Ada.”_

“He does, and he won’t mind it, Elrond. Have no worries,” said Glorfindel lightly.

As the pair traipsed away down the path to the stables, a golden gleam at the corner of his eye announced to Elrond that his law-mother, in Imladris for Arwen’s coming-of-age ceremony, had joined them in the gardens. His law-father Celeborn was probably engrossed in a tome in the library.

“My lady-mother,” he said, turning towards Galadriel.

And was arrested by the look on the Lady of Lothlórien’s face as she looked at the beauteous pair walking away, Arwen holding on to Glorfindel’s arm, and her dark head leaning close to his fair one.

“So. A blossoming infatuation, I see,” said the Lady, her brilliant grey eyes glinting dangerously.

“I should have seen it sooner,” said Elrond, shaking his head. “So many of the valley’s young maidens go through a Glorfindel phase. And outgrow it in time,” he added hopefully. “For the affection is never returned, and he does naught to encourage them.”

But…this was different, he realized. So fond of the Evenstar was Glorfindel, and so used to receiving and reciprocating the hundreds of little gestures of affection she had lavished on him since she was in diapers, that he might unwittingly lead her on…

“He is oblivious to her feelings, you can tell,” said Celebrían. “One wonders what it would take for our Glorfindel to finally give his heart.”

“Eru alone knows. Do not encourage it, _Rían-nín._ I can only hope it is a passing fancy of our jewel’s. I would not see her hurt.” It might seem that the obvious solution would be to speak to Glorfindel and tell him about it… but the risk Elrond was not prepared to take was Glorfindel suddenly having an epiphany and loving Arwen in return.

“It is but a fancy,” said Galadriel softly. “And the sooner it ends, the better for all.” Her lovely lips were set in a disapproving line.

“And yet, _Nana,_ I cannot help but wish Glorfindel’s heart might return my lovely little star’s affection,” said Celebrían wistfully to her mother. “You love him as we do. Surely it would be a joy to have him in our family?”

And Elrond, looking at the Lady of Lothlórien’s incandescent tresses, could not help but think: _The same shade of gold as Glorfindel’s hair…only brighter…and only they two in all of Ennor with that hair of sun-bright gold._

_I wonder…_

Galadriel’s penetrating grey eyes turned away from the stables, and looked deeply into his. “So, law-son—is all ready for the ceremony tomorrow?”

Elrond blinked, his mind suddenly a blank.

…What had he just been thinking?

 

 

That night, Galadriel left the Hall of Fire, as the _Lay of Glorfindel and the Balrog_ ended, in order to seek out the balrog slayer himself.

She found him easily. The warm radiance of his golden hair gave him away like a beacon. He had found a large clearing amid a grove of birches and willow oaks, some distance from the house, and with his great two-handed sword he was going through the paces of an intricate duel against an imaginary opponent.  The swiftness, grace and strength of his movements was breathtaking, and she watched him for a while, lost in admiration.

And lost also in memories.

From this distance, she could almost imagine him to be another… one most beloved, and lost to her almost four millennia ago. How similar the fall of his bright hair, that lithe, leonine grace and power, and his tall, straight, slender build.

There were very few exiles left in Ennor now who would remember. Who might recognize one of the House of Finarfin.

One of them was standing behind her now.

“Gildor Inglorion,” she said without turning. “It is a joy to meet you again, Wanderer.”

“The joy of the meeting is all mine, Lady Galadriel,” said the dark-haired Noldo as he came to her side. The adopted son of her brother, raised by him in Nargothrond, too young to follow when Felagund went forth to meet his death. The one who named Ingoldo as father stood at her side and gazed as well at the warrior who was walking in the distance away from them. “I have not spoken of it to any, _híril-nín,_ ” said the Noldo suddenly, “but sometimes, when I look at Lord Glorfindel, I see some likeness to _Aran_ Finrod… I wonder if you see it as well?”

She smiled, but did not speak for a while. “We search in others for the ones we have loved and lost. And too oft our hearts choose to see that which we seek. The resemblance is slight; it is the hair, mostly.”

Gildor was on delicate ground. To pursue the matter might be to question the honour of her House—of her brothers, or of her own self.

“Finrod told me once of a dream he had. A dream that he had a son,” said Gildor. “He longed so much for that child. It was that longing compelled him to adopt me, when he found me in the woods. But I know I was not the child in his dreams.”

She was very still, her lovely features as immobile as a statue’s. “Yet he loved you no less, I believe, Inglorion.”

He smiled. “He was the best of fathers. He honoured me with both his protection and his name. And he helped me discover the truth of my parentage…and how bravely my parents died, saving me.” He looked at the balrog slayer in the distance. “Glorfindel never speaks of it, but it must be hard. I have the privilege of naming two fathers, and he not even one.”

“His is a joyful _fae_ ; such thoughts trouble him little.”

“And that is a blessing great indeed,” agreed Gildor.

And hearing merry music striking up in the Hall of Fire, he bowed deeply to her and returned to the house.

The Lady Galadriel was guiltily pondering her secret as she walked towards the golden-haired descendent of Finwë and of Elmo.

Glorfindel and her daughter. First cousins, unbeknownst to them, through the house of Finarfin. But also first cousins once removed, through the house of Galadhon, son of Elmo…

Celeborn her consort would agree—that double kinship on both sides made the blood far too close for any thought of a union between Glorfindel and Arwen.

Others might underestimate how wilful and strong-headed Arwen was, but Galadriel saw her youthful self in her grand-daughter. And something of Glorfindel’s mother. Her stomach lurched as she remembered that disastrous affair, and what she and Celeborn had had to do to hide it, and keep the secret from Finrod. Arwen might be wiser than Celeborn’s niece, but love was a form of madness. There was no telling what a young heart that fancied itself desperately in love might do.

Galadriel would end this youthful crush before it went any further. Distance and distraction would be the key.

The tall, golden-haired warrior paused in his sword practice as he saw the Lady of the Golden Woods. Turning to her, he saluted her with his sword, then bowed deeply and smiled—a dazzling smile that brought fleeting reminders of both his sire and his dam, and yet was all his own. “ _Herinya_ —your company as always brings me joy, and your beauty gladdens my eyes.” Since the Second Age, it had been their habit to converse in Quenya; it made Galadriel feel her brother close to her again.

“The joy and gladness is all mine, Laurefindel. I missed you in the Hall of Fire. You are restless. Or do you not relish hearing songs of your renowned battle with the balrog?”

“A little of both, _herinya.”_ He gave the bright blade of the sword a swing and it sang through the air. “I do weary of this peacetime indolence. And I do think bards—er—embellish their recounts of that battle excessively.” He looked a little embarrassed.

“As to the latter, you are too modest. As to the former…” She gazed deep into his eyes. “Travel Ennor. The time for war is done, for now, but not adventure. New lands await your discovery.”

His blue eyes grew brighter. “Indeed, I have been thinking the exact same thing!”

At times, he reminded her so much of Finrod. As now, when the thought of adventure and exploration lit up his face.

“Perhaps I should venture north into the Forodwaith to seek the northern lights,” he was saying as he casually spun the sharp sword in his hands. “I have heard it is a glorious sight. And I know already most of the lands from the coasts of Lindon to the wide plains of Rhovanion.”

Lady Galadriel’s eyes narrowed. Too many were the tales she had heard of the perils and treachery of the icy wastes of the far north. And too bitter her memories of the Helcaraxë. She wanted her beloved nephew safely out of the way, not dead. She remembered the ending of Lindir’s lay.

“The song of your duel with the balrog has a pretty ending. Legend has it that Ulmo kept your grave above the waves of Alatairë, when Beleriand was drowned, and that golden celandines bloom on it still. Is it true?”

“I know not in the slightest! I have heard the same, but given it no credence. Lord Ulmo certainly never spoke a word of it to me in Aman.” His blue eyes sparkled. “And I cannot say it matters to me. I am alive now, after all, am I not?”

And Galadriel saw her tall silver-haired consort and her dark-haired law-son approaching them down the winding path lined with tall willow oaks. She smiled her charismatic, compelling smile at Elrond, speaking now in Sindarin. “Law-son, I have a task for your warrior. He is to search the isles off the coast of Lindon, and bring back word if the songs of his grave be true.” She turned back to Glorfindel. “And should they prove to be so, balrog slayer, bring back for me the seeds of the golden celandine that grow upon the mound. I have a mind to sow it on Cerin Amroth alongside the elanor.”

Glorfindel was so stunned at this bit of whimsy from the Lady of the Golden Woods he almost dropped his sword. He looked from the lady to his lord, a little helplessly. _“Hîr-nín?”_ He had not an iota of interest in proving the songs true or otherwise. Elrond would not accede to a demand so whimsical, surely. The rainbow lights and ice mountains of the Forodwaith held infinitely more appeal as a travel destination to the adventurer.

So he was flabbergasted when Elrond said, quite breezily, “A splendid idea! There is nothing to keep you here, Glorfindel. And I know how the idleness of two centuries has irked you.”

“But—”

“You may depart immediately following the ceremony.”

“But _Hîr-nín_ —there are dozens upon dozens of islands off the coast!!”

“You have my blessing to take as much time as is needed to accomplish this task.”

Glorfindel swallowed, and sheathed his sword.

“It will give a whole new meaning to ‘finding yourself’,” Galadriel said, smiling into the balrog slayer’s huge, tragic blue eyes. And with a chuckle, she patted his cheek with a motherly hand.

And when Celeborn’s eyes met hers briefly, he elegantly lifted an eyebrow and exchanged a secret smile with her.

 

_Glossary_

Pen dithen (S) – little one

Ellon (S) – male elf

Meleth-nín (S) – my love

Ada, Nana (S) – Dad, Mom

Ellith (S) – plural – female elves. (I should be consistent but I’m affected by mood. Sometimes I’ll feel ellyth looks prettier!)

Iell-nín (S) – my daughter

Híril-nín (S) – my lady

Fae (S) – spirit (in the narration the Quenya _fëa_ is used instead)

Herinya (Q) – my lady

Hîr-nín (S) – my lord

_[Elvish grammar and diacritical marks are my bugbear. If I make mistakes, and you have expert knowledge, do share.]_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this silly little fic and all spin-offs from The Golden and the Black, I have had fun making Glorfindel Finrod’s secret son. The parallels between them made it irresistible to me. Along the way I happily decided to make Gildor Finrod’s adopted son to explain both “Inglorion” and the “House of Finrod”. But I do have alternative headcanons where Glorfindel is the son of Findis or the son of Lalwen (and about the same age as Aegnor), and where Gildor is simply a member of the household of Finrod, and the son of an unknown Noldo named Inglor.
> 
> I really do love Elrond, but given his reaction to Estel-Aragorn’s love for Arwen millennia down the road, and the Thingol-like bride-price he set for the poor mortal, I think his negative reaction to Glorfindel as a potential law-son here is credible.
> 
> This is a very, very young Arwen – probably the equivalent of a 16 or 17 year old, so I made her behave like one ;-)


	3. The Island Odyssey

Glorfindel scrutinized the large parchment map on the wall in Círdan’s tower. Through the open window drifted the sounds of Mithlond harbour: the song of the _círyn_ , the voices of fishermen and merchants, both elven and mortal, blending with the cries of seagulls and the splash of the waves against the wharves and hulls of ships.

Sadly, the ancient mariner’s map told the balrog slayer no more than those in the library of Imladris had.

Only three islands showed off the coast of Lindon.

Himring.

Tol Fuin.

Tol Morwen.

He knew there were dozens upon dozens of smaller islands, mostly barren and uninhabited. It amazed him that after over three thousand years, the Teleri under Círdan had made no detailed maps of this archipelago.

He stared at the expanse on the map that was the ocean around the three isles. Beneath it lay the drowned lands of his birth and his first life.

“If Tol Fuin is what remains of the Mountains of Terror south of Dorthonion,” said the warrior, “Then Gondolin should be…here.” His finger traced a line east of Tol Fuin on the map.

Círdan shook his head. “’Tis not so simple, _mellon-iaur,”_ said the ancient bearded one. “When the war destroyed Beleriand, it did not merely sink ’neath the waves. The very foundations of the earth shifted as Angband and Thangorodrim were swallowed into the depths. There were high places brought low, and other lower-lying lands lifted up. Thus is it that Tol Morwen breaks the surface of the sea, whereas the Crissaegrim lies beneath the waves. Nor might they lie where they once were. The sea beds shifted with the drowning of Elenna and the bending of the world.”

“So… this isle that is sung of… does it exist? Or is it just a figment of a bard’s imagination?”

Surely, if anyone knew, it would be the ancient Shipwright.

But to his dismay, Círdan slowly shook his head. “Our ships sail not there, _mellon-iaur._ I have heard no more than what the songs say, just as you have. I am sorry, _”_

The Shipwright’s great ocean-worthy white ships were built for one journey: into the West. His people’s fishing vessels seldom ventured far beyond the Gulf of Lune, while his merchant ships plied routes to Gondor in the south, and no further north than Forlond.

“So… all I can do is to go there chasing the whispers of a legend and a song.” Glorfindel gazed pensively at the spot on the map where the Echoriad had once been.

“There is a ship of _edain_ merchants leaving for Forlond in three days. You could take passage with them, and pay for it by offering your services as a warrior—protection against pirates.”

The golden head turned towards Círdan, the blue eyes suddenly sharp and alert. “Pirates?”

The mariner’s ancient sea-grey eyes twinkled.

And the greatest elven warrior in Ennor grinned in anticipation.

 

After a fond and touching farewell between horse and rider, Glorfindel left Asfaloth to wander free in the green, open meadows around the Tower Hills overlooking the gulf—until the day he would return.

Then he made his way back to Mithlond harbour, boarded a thirty- _rangar_ vessel with fifteen _edain_ –crewmen and merchants—and set sail for the northern coast of Ennor.

And indeed there were pirates on the voyage. Glorfindel slew none, but disarmed and bound them, took their ship, and upon their docking at Forlond marched them to the constabulary for incarceration.  

At Forlond, he haunted the wharves and the taverns, and struck up conversation with many. Someone, surely, had heard of an island with the grave of an elven warrior. And yes, the legend was known. But none knew if the island were real, nor knew of rumour where it might lie. And curiously they eyed his height and his golden hair and his sword, and wished him well in finding it.

So then he sought a ship willing to take him into the islands. And thus began a five-year-long odyssey from island to island.

There were long interruptions from storms, particularly in the winter.

At many places, a fruitless seeking of clues, and a long wait for a ship for the next leg of his journey.

On Tol Morwen, he saw the graves of the Hapless, but none again knew aught of his own.

On Himring, he spent his first winter, and admired the millennia-old ruins of the Fëanorian stronghold of Maedhros, and wondered if any ruins of Gondolin or Vinyamar yet endured.

The Egladhrim of these northern waters were shy of strangers—especially a tall, golden-haired Inlander with a strange accent. Slowly, at each stop, he would work to win their trust and their friendship. And so the warrior learned of their scattered settlements on many small islands over hundreds of leagues of ocean.

The Egladhrin mariners sailed these waters from memory. On pieces of parchment, as he travelled, Glorfindel’s map of this archipelago grew.

He narrowly avoided shipwreck several times, and fought off pirates thrice.

During long months wintering in small settlements of both elves and mortals, he would tell the tales of the lands of Ennor and its people, and sing them the tragic and glorious songs of the Last Alliance, and the Siege of Barad-dûr.

But above all, he sang of Gondolin—of its fall, and the battle of a warrior with a balrog on a high mountain pass.

Finally, in a small settlement fifty leagues off the north coast of Tol Fuin, an Egol with green eyes and dark-honey brown hair approached him after he ended his song one night in the island’s one inn.

“There is a friend of mine who has spoken of a place with such a legend. The island where his mother was born is named Tol Mellys, for golden flowers cover an ancient hero’s grave there.”

Glorfindel’s face brightened. “Where may I find this friend of yours?”

 

 

* * *

 

_Glossary_

Mellon-iaur (S) – old/ancient friend

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  I really do mean Himring, not Himling as on most of the maps, as the former is the name that Tolkien replaced the latter with.


	4. The Wisdom of Seagulls

So. He was finally here.

Glorfindel looked down sceptically on the cairn on the steep hillslope. A circle of rocks enclosing a neatly-weeded mound on which pretty yellow celandine swayed and trembled in the sea breeze.

 _It must be a hoax_ , he thought. The rocks were weathered, but did not look three and a half millennia old to him. And one thing he was fairly certain of—though Tuor had never spoken it to him…for who speaks to another about how they buried him?—in their haste and urgency to depart, the refugees of Gondolin would not have arranged rocks in so tidy a circle, but piled them hurriedly on top of the body. Just enough to deter possible scavengers, he imagined.

He felt a strange sense of duty to discover if the grave were real or no. For, were it fake, he could not in conscience allow the Egladhrim to continue the ludicrous honour they paid to this heap of stones.

 _It was no more than a myth_ , he would tell Elrond and company when he returned to Imladris, _and the songs untrue_.

And they would laugh and shake their heads woefully at the thought of the pilgrims who for millennia had ascribed supernatural powers to a pile of rocks.

_So…is this truly my grave? Or indeed, any grave?_

_Perhaps I should dig it up to see if there are any bones interred here at all._

_And if a body be indeed buried here…whose is it?_

_But what means do I have of discerning if the bones are mine or another’s?_

_I wonder if anything of my armour would still be there. That wondrous steel wrought from the ores delved in Anghabar._

_Or any of my personal effects._ (Racks brain trying to remember what belongings, if any, he had on him when they fled…no; he had taken naught but the weapons he had on him.)

_After over three millennia, what bones, if any, would remain?_

_Elven bones are light but amazingly strong. I wonder how many millennia they would take to fragment…_

_After that fall of over a hundred rangar, just how many intact bones would I still have had, anyway?_

At this point, he found himself feeling rather strange and a little giddy at this slew of uncharacteristically morbid thoughts, and decided he had better sit down.

So he sat on the stones bordering the cairn, and looked out west over the sun sinking into the sea.

The island was no more than a large, tall rock with steep slopes rising green and rocky from the waves.

On the southern face of the island was a village of seventeen Egladhrim. They fished, and they herded. They had a small flock of forty-nine sheep who probably regularly grazed this slope as well, but at the moment Glorfindel was entirely alone.

The entire stretch of hillside, surrounding the cairn, was carpeted with yellow celandine. It was a beautiful sight. But aesthetics aside, Glorfindel was practical. If he knew one thing about celandine, it was that it was not on a sheep’s diet. They should clear the flowers, he thought. Remembering a Gondolindrin recipe, he thought of how they could cook and eat the plant.

It was a west-facing slope. He gazed at the sinking sun. That was the direction in which the refugees would have fled through the encircling mountains, and Gondolin would have lain behind him, to the east.

Glorfindel remembered the path of their flight through the mountains. Was this truly the Cirith Thoronath? The spot where they had been ambushed by the balrog and his orcs? After millennia of weathering, and the changes wrought by the shifting of the land plates both during the War of Wrath and the bending of the world, he could not say.

Memories of that dark night returned. The desperate flight, slowed down by the wounded, Glorfindel and his House taking the rear. The moment of horror when the balrog and his orcs had descended upon them. There had been no hesitation, no thought even, as he leaped swiftly forward to confront the demon. It had come as naturally as breathing, as though all his life and all his training had led him to that one moment. There had been no room for fear.

Then had come that singing moment of triumph, as he thrust his mortally-wounded foe down from the pinnacle, and cries of relief and elation had erupted from the people as they watched. But the demon, falling, had grasped his bright hair and pulled him down with it, and as he fell to the cries of horror from his people, the agony of the balrog flames engulfing him had blotted out all thought or emotion.

Save at the last, one thought, one image: Princess Idril, Tuor, and Eärendil. In his _fëa_ , he knew them safe, and knew his death not in vain. His spirit sang in a soaring chorus of hope and victory, the moment ere he struck the rocks below…

A seagull which had been sitting on the mound when he arrived, landed before him now with a smooth gliding motion. It eyeballed him with its beady eye, and he eyeballed it back.

“Hail, my feathered friend,” he said. “What cheer? Have you never seen an elf at his own grave before?” He sighed. “Though I greatly doubt it _is_ my grave. But how I might ever prove it, even should I dig it up—”

“ _Ai_ , pray do not,” rasped the bird. “’Tis indeed thy grave, child.”

Glorfindel stared hard at the bird, whose head was held with regal pride, and whose eye suddenly had a look of profound wisdom.

“Distress not the good people of these isles,” said the seagull in a familiar imperial tone. “Never have they talked or walked with the Ainur; and through this grave they catch a whisper of Aman.”

Glorfindel could not believe it. “… _Lord Manwë?”_

“And I,” said another seagull that swooped down to land in the flowers near the other. “’Tis a pleasure to speak with thee again, bright heart, after thy brief sojourn in mine halls.”

“Lord Námo!”

And in the golden light of the sunset, Glorfindel fell on his knees before the birds, feeling that nothing could be more surreal or absurd even as he did so.

“My lords! So this has all been your doing?” he asked the seagull-Valar. “The grave is truly mine? And the grass and flowers, the streams and fair weather—the miracles—they are no coincidence?”

“Coincidence is a word much overused,” said seagull-Manwë. “The line between coincidence and miracle is far narrower than most of the Children imagine.”

“I need to tell the Egladhrim,” said Glorfindel a little desperately. “They think it is all because of this grave. They think it is me. And it never was. Speak to them! Tell them it was the Valar’s doing. They will believe it if they hear you.”

A squawking chorus of laughter burst forth from the gulls.

“No, no. That would not do, child.”

“Before thou knowst it, the Children wouldst all be worshipping gulls. And not hunting them nor eating their eggs… and Eru knows well in these parts they could use all the variety of nourishment they can get.”

“But… why not appear in your own forms? As you did to Tuor at Nevrast, or to the Eldar—and me—in Aman?”

“We mayst no longer do so in the Bent World. Our presence here needs must now be… subtler.”

“The occasional dream, or flash of prophecy.”

“Or a talking seagull.”

“We send messengers and servants. Such as thou.”

“Or use places such as this—a meeting point between two worlds.”

“The presence of thy grave brings them comfort and causes them to feel safe.”

“Why wouldst thou begrudge them their hope?”

“‘Begrudge them their hope’…” echoed Glorfindel. “My lords, if I may be blunt, have you any idea how ironic that is? For an age you condemned us Noldor to shed tears unnumbered here in exile and shut out our lamentation from Aman.”

“That was his doing!” said seagull-Manwë sharply, giving seagull-Námo’s head a vicious peck that sent him squawking and flapping three rangar away. “Him and his Doom! _Do whatever is needful, but get those children to turn back,_ said I. _Put thou the fear of Eru in them,_ said I.”

“The Doom was meant to fall upon Fëanor and his House alone,” lamented seagull-Námo, flying back and settling on a stone of the cairn. “I little thought so many of the host would follow still, in the face of so fearsome a curse, and show so little wisdom to not turn back whilst they could. Nor that when that fanatical firebrand sailed without them, they would continue over the Ice. Madness. Utter madness.”

“But the words of power once released were binding,” sighed seagull-Manwë.

“And it has been deeply regretted since.”

“We assayed to do what little we could thereafter.”

“The founding of the secret cities. The eagles.”

“Ah yes, child…” Seagull-Manwë cleared his throat almost sheepishly. “About the eagles…”

The wind and waves were loud in the silence that followed.

“Yes?” asked Glorfindel politely.

“The eagles were there for Beren and Lúthien, for Huor and Hurin, even for Findekáno and Maitimo,” said Manwë gently, “But not for thee.”

“Well…no one could expect you to save everyone all the time. I am grateful to have been given decent burial.”

“The truth is… Thorondor could have snatched thee from the grasp of the fiend and caught thee. But Eru chose to take thee to Aman earlier.”

Glorfindel’s head spun. “What?”

“’Twas only partly for the pleasure of thy bright _fëa_ in our midst. Much more was at stake.”

“Hadst thou not died here at this pass, thou wouldst have lived on to become a kinslayer at the Havens—shed Fëanorian blood and lived with that guilt and shadow staining thy bright soul and robbing thee of joy.”

“Maitimo and his men would have fallen by thine hand.”

“Thou wouldst have saved Elwing, and she would not have flown forth to meet Eärendil.”

“They would not have found their way to Aman.”

“And the hosts of Valinor would not have set forth when they did.”

“Moringotto would have been enthroned an age longer, and other means needed to bring a message to the West and bring him down.”

“For all these reasons, thy death by the demon was ordained, pure heart. And thine hands kept clean.”

Glorfindel sat stunned for a long while. “I am not sure I needed to know all that,” he said. “All my years in Aman, and you never said a word before you sent me back to Ennor. Why now?”

“So thou mayst see how thou and all things great and small have their place in the fabric of Arda and the unfolding of its history. Including this grave on this tiny rock, kept above the waves.”

“But—nay! It is not right! For there to be miracles not of my doing, yet ascribed to me.”

“Eru’s ways are inscrutable. His children need doors to the miraculous. A means by which to touch his face. And here—it is thou.”

“Why me?”

“Do not ask,” said seagull-Manwë.

“Inscrutable,” nodded seagull-Námo.

“But now, be prepared.”

“The Children approach.”

“Do not deny who thou art.”

“Do not deny them their faith.”

The sun had set as they spoke, and a myriad stars now flamed white in the heavens above.

As the seagulls flew away, and settled to roost in a flock of their kind higher on the hill, Glorfindel rose to his feet and turned to see the Egladhrim villagers and mariners of the ship making their way up the hill towards him.

 

 


End file.
